


When The Time Comes

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Aging, Angst, Challenge Response, Community: older_not_dead, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hope, M/M, POV Third Person, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray's vision gets worse as he gets older; Fraser worries about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Time Comes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ride_Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/gifts).



> For Ride_Forever, because it is All Her Fault. :)  Also, November is a busy month: I wrote a long story because I didn't have time to write a short one.
> 
> Angst-to-hope ratio: lowish?
> 
> Written for the hurt/comfort prompt "Fraser/Kowalski: as his eyesight continued to worsen: at [older_not_dead.](http:older_not_dead.livejournal.com)
> 
> Thanks to seascribe, scribe, and lydiastattoos for helpful suggestions about shootouts.

Fraser worries about Ray.  More and more often, these days.  He knows it’s presumptuous.  Ray would be furious if he realized how often Fraser is concerned for his safety, how he watches Ray more carefully now, makes allowances for his. . .weakness.  Fraser would be offended, himself, if he were to discover that Ray was doing something similar for him.  Or perhaps _humiliated_ would be the more honest word.  Ray deserves better from Fraser.

And after all, it isn’t as though age has taken much toll on Ray in general.  At fifty-one, Ray is still hale and athletic.  He’s stockier now than he was when Fraser first met him, and calmer—not so much in his emotions or his speech, but physically.  He doesn’t fidget as much as he used to; he no longer gives the impression of someone who must be in constant motion or risk spontaneous combustion.

He’s still active, of course, happiest when he’s putting in long days on the move.  And his feet and fists are as swift as ever, or nearly so.  He can still climb a chain-link fence or jump from a fire escape, though he sometimes complains more of stiffness or bruises the day after a hard chase.

The trouble is Ray’s eyesight.

He wears his glasses all the time now, which in and of itself would be a welcome improvement on Ray’s old, slapdash approach that occasionally left him unable to shoot accurately when he needed to.  But Ray’s vision has deteriorated to the point where even corrective lenses can’t completely compensate.

He misses shots, now, that he once would have made with ease.

Ray is aware of the problem, Fraser knows.  He’s seen Ray shut down, quiet and sullen, after one or two occasions when a missed shot had grave consequences.  Fraser knows Ray still blames himself for the injury Officer Reynolds took to the arm when Ray’s first attempt to disable that terrorist failed.

That’s the worst that’s happened, so far.  But Fraser is very much afraid that it’s only a matter of time.  It would be bad enough if Ray’s failing aim contributed to the escape of a criminal.  Worse if it were a question of the serious injury or death of a fellow officer or an innocent civilian.  That would devastate Ray, perhaps beyond recovery.  If Ray himself were hurt or killed. . .Fraser isn’t sure _he_ would recover from that.

But his feelings aren’t germane, and besides, in the matter of risk-taking, he hardly has a leg to stand on.  Ray has yelled at him often enough for risking his own life and Ray’s, and Fraser has always responded. . .in much the same way as his father did to any suggestion that he should play it safe or take things easy.

God knows, Fraser’s father wasn’t much of a role model when it came to close relationships, his stories about Buck Frobisher notwithstanding.  And God knows Fraser still regrets and resents the fact that his father died partly because he was too proud to ask anyone—including his own son—for help when he needed it.  But he can’t honestly regret that his father died doing what he loved, fighting to maintain the right with his last breath.  Not in a hospital, dependent on a machine for his breath and bodily functions, like Ray’s father died.  Not with his mind eaten away by dementia and his body gradually withering, like Ray’s mother will when she goes.  Bob Fraser died proud and strong and doing his duty, and Fraser can’t imagine a way he’d rather go himself.

So it would be beyond presumptuous of him to ask Ray to choose a different path.  Even though he goes cold and sick, now, every time they’re in a tight spot and he watches Ray take aim.  Ray’s choices are his own to make, and as his friend and partner, Fraser owes it to him to keep his mouth shut and let Ray make them.

Until they find themselves pinned down behind a stack of rapidly-disintegrating crates by fire from two ruffians with semi-automatic weapons, with a third clambering up the backside of a crane to get into position to shoot down at them from near-perfect cover.  There’s nowhere to retreat to; once the third man gets a bead on them, they’ll be sitting ducks.

Fraser glances around for anything they might use to alter the tactical situation.  There: the crane’s controls are just visible through its dirty window.  A direct hit with a bullet ought to be enough to flip the ignition and start the crane rolling—away from their position, towards their assailants, but most importantly, at an angle that will block the shot of the man on top of it, at least temporarily.  A chancy solution, but the only one Fraser can see.

He taps Ray’s shoulder; points.  Ray looks, nods, and raises his gun.  It’s a long shot, and a tricky one, but not impossible.

The _crack_ of Ray’s gun, loud in Fraser’s ear.  The window shatters; the bullet _dings_ off metal; the crane remains motionless.  Ray curses as another bullet whines past them to ricochet off the concrete floor.  The third man has reached the top of the crane.  Their time has run out.

And Fraser does the unforgivable.  He turns to snatch the gun from Ray’s hand so that he can take the shot himself.  Knowing that there will be hell to pay—but he’ll face whatever comes, even if this betrayal finally breaks the friendship that has endured so much.  As long as Ray is alive.

He turns to snatch the gun—and Ray pushes it into his hand.  Ray meets his startled glance steadily for a split second.

Then Fraser shoves him to the ground, bullets singing past him as he lifts the gun.  Aims.  Fires.

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

Fraser usually finds standing guard outside the Consulate restful, a sort of meditation.  His thoughts slip away, his brain stills along with his body, and he just drifts, aware of his surroundings but free of the responsibility to respond to them.

Sometimes, however, he finds it impossible to fall into the meditative state.  When something is preying on his mind—on his heart, really; it’s only ever his emotions that he finds himself unable to let go of.

He hasn’t seen Ray since yesterday evening.  As they brought the criminals in for processing and wrote up the arrest report, Ray was grimly taciturn but physically restless in a way that reminded Fraser of his partner’s younger days and put him on guard for an emotional outburst that never manifested.  Paperwork completed, Ray asked Francesca to give Fraser a lift home, and by the time Fraser managed to politely decline the unwanted favor, Ray had made himself scarce.  Respecting Ray’s obvious wish to be alone, Fraser made no attempt to contact him, but his thoughts were on his partner all night.

This morning, the need to see Ray is like a physical itch.  He needs to know how Ray is feeling, to offer what support or comfort he can.  To—be honest—reassure himself, or. . .at least to know the worst.  Once he understands, he can think about what to do.

As if Fraser’s thoughts had some mystical summoning power, Ray’s GTO pulls up in front of the consulate.  Ray sees Fraser, pulls an irritated face, checks his watch as he clomps up the steps, and plops down at Fraser’s feet to wait.

After a few minutes, Fraser’s internal clock tells him that his shift is over; the chimes from the church around the corner sound a moment later.  He turns to Ray, who is already up and brandishing a handful of papers in Fraser’s face.

“Ray?” Fraser asks, but Ray’s only reply is to thrust the papers at him again, so Fraser takes them.  Chicago Police Department administrative forms.  Retirement forms.  He flips through and finds the information all filled out, Ray’s tiny, cramped signature scrawled on the bottom of the last page.

Ray is watching him intently.

There’s absolutely nothing he can say.  He can’t try to talk Ray out of this course of action, which is obviously the responsible thing to do, obviously in Ray’s best interests.  But he can’t find the words to support this difficult decision, either, because the thought of Ray going through with it knocks the breath out of him like a gut-punch.

Ray waits, while Fraser stands dumbly frozen like he’s still on guard duty.  Fraser knows he has to say something, anything, before the silence becomes damning, but Ray beats him to it.

“You’re not going to try to talk me out of it.  Didn’t really think so.”  He quirks one corner of his mouth briefly in something like a smile as he takes the papers out of Fraser’s hand.

He folds them carefully and sticks them in the inner pocket of his jacket.  Then he pats his pockets as though he’s looking for the cigarettes he hasn’t smoked since before Fraser met him, comes up with a battered packet of chewing gum, and pops a stick into his mouth.  He waves the packet in Fraser’s direction, reflexive courtesy, but he’s stuffing it back in his pocket even as Fraser declines the offer with a gesture.  They stand side by side, looking out at the street, much as though they were actually sharing a cigarette break.

“What will you do next?” Fraser asks.

“No fucking clue.  Not like I have some backup career waiting.  Cop’s all I know how to do.  I mean, sure, I got skills,” Ray continues quickly, like he’s cutting off some anticipated comment from Fraser.  “But what?  I’m going to go be a grease monkey for peanuts?  Or teach dance lessons, which would be a joke because I don’t actually know much, but even if I did, do I look like someone you’d take lessons from?”  He gestures at himself with a grimace.  Admittedly, he looks more like a nightclub patron than a ballroom dancer, but appearances aren’t everything.

“You might be surprised,” Fraser says, but Ray ignores him.

“Anyway, I’m too fucking old to start something new, even if there was something to start.  Too old to hire, too young to retire.”

“You’ll have your pension, at least,” Fraser offers.  He’s not sure of the state of Ray’s finances.  Ray’s general carelessness about domestic matters might imply that he doesn’t pay much mind to financial planning, and certainly Fraser can’t remember hearing him ever discuss the subject.  On the other hand, Ray is methodical about some surprising things, and apart from his car and the fact that he has no one to share the rent on his apartment, his tastes are relatively inexpensive.

Ray just shrugs, apparently either unwilling or uninterested in discussing the financial side of his situation.

“If money isn’t the issue, there’s always volunteer work,” suggests Fraser.  “Your work with the young men’s boxing club was—”

“Did I ask you for helpful suggestions?” Ray snaps.  “No, I did not.”

“True enough,” Fraser admits.  “I’m sorry.”

“Never mind,” Ray sighs.  “Not your fault.  I just. . .”  He flaps one hand vaguely, then lets it drop, leaving his sentence unfinished.

Fraser is about to offer to take Ray to lunch—perhaps they could make a field trip to the deli in Ray’s childhood neighborhood, which he loves but which is out of their usual way—when Ray asks, “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“I’m not sure what you mean, Ray.”

Ray jerks head and shoulders in a shrug.

“You’ll be out a partner.”  He pokes at the marble step with the toe of his well-worn boot.  “You going to head back to Canada?”

Fraser is honestly surprised by the question.  On reflection, he supposes he ought to be surprised at his own surprise.  It’s the obvious question; or at least, it once would have been.

“No,” he says.

Ray is clearly as surprised by the answer as Fraser was by the question, which makes Fraser’s throat tighten for a moment.  Does Ray really not know this about him?  Even after fifteen years?

“No?”

“No,” Fraser repeats firmly.  “I’m here for good.”

“You don’t want to go home?” Ray asks.  It’s not simple repetition of the same question.  Consciously or not, Ray has put his finger on exactly how Fraser feels.  _Home_ in his heart is still Canada; but he no longer wants to return home.

“That’s right,” he says, smiling involuntarily at the pleasure of understanding this, and of being understood by Ray.  “I’m not going anywhere.  I like it here.”

Ray smiles back for a moment—the shy, slightly disbelieving smile that Fraser first saw on Ray’s face the day they met, when Fraser invited him to dinner.  That smile tugs Fraser’s heart every time, filling him with tenderness but also outrage that Ray ever should have been made to doubt his own worth to such a degree.  And that even now, he still does.

Fraser puts a hand on Ray’s shoulder, but Ray is already turning his face away again, the smile fading into a moody frown.  He doesn’t step away, at least.

“I guess the Lieu will find you a new partner, then,” says Ray after a while.

“I suppose so,” says Fraser, because really, what else is there to say? His only law-enforcement authority here, where he isn’t even a citizen, is his liaison arrangement with the Chicago police department.  But he can’t picture working with anyone else.  Even his partnership with Ray Vecchio was long enough ago to feel like a different chapter in his life.

“Yeah,” Ray says, nodding like they’ve just agreed on something.  And without another word, he’s moving: hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, head ducked like he’s walking into a strong wind (though it’s a mild day), he starts down the steps.

“Ray.”

Ray looks back over his shoulder.

“You’ll always be my partner,” Fraser says.

Ray’s lips twist in something too bitter to be a smile.

“Even from thousands of miles away, ain’t that right?”

“I told you I’m not leaving,” Fraser reminds him.  But Ray shakes his head.

“It was a whatsis—a metaphor.”

He’s in his car and driving away before Fraser can find the words to call him back.

 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

It’s a beautiful night for a walk, which was not really a factor in Fraser’s decision to make the walk over to Ray’s house rather than call ahead to ask for a ride or at least an invitation.  He’s not entirely sure Ray will welcome the intrusion, but he’ll just have to hope.

Ray’s windows are lit; he’s home, at least.

Fraser pauses to take a deep breath, then another.  Then he realizes he’s being ridiculous and marches briskly into the building and up the stairs to Ray’s door.

Ray answers his knock promptly.  He’s wearing the same jeans and sweatshirt he had on earlier in the day, minus his jacket, holster, and shoes.  Fraser is pleased to note that Ray shows no signs of having been drinking, then he feels a little ashamed of the thought, though it wasn’t an unreasonable worry.  Ray doesn’t seem particularly tense, either, which is more of a surprise after today’s events.  His face shows a flash of surprise when he first sees Fraser, which quickly fades into an embarrassed, slightly wary smile.

“Hey, Fraser.  Uh, what’s up?”

“I have a question for you,” Fraser tells him.

“Okay. . . ?” says Ray after a moment of silence.

“I’ve wanted to ask you for quite some time, but, well, the time was never right.”

Ray’s brows draw together, puzzled, suspicious.  “But now it is.”

“Yes.”

Ray sighs and fiddles with his bracelet.

“Do I want to hear this?”

Fraser manages to keep from biting his lip before he answers, quietly, “I hope so.”

“If I didn’t want to hear it, would you ask me anyway?”

"It's difficult to determine whether you want to hear the question without asking the question," Fraser points out.

"That depends a lot on the question," Ray counters.

"True."

Ray sighs again.

"Look, let's not stand in the hall all night.  Come in, will you?"

He steps back to let Fraser enter, then shuts the door behind him and leans against it with his arms crossed.  Fraser thinks the gesture is a sign of anxiety rather than anger.

“So. . .” Ray says after a moment.  “This question of yours.  Are you going to ask me?”

“Not if you’d rather I didn’t.”  Fraser manages to get the sentence out without stammering.  His face feels hot.

“Oh, just get it over with already,” Ray snaps, exasperated, but Fraser can hear the fondness and concern in his tone.  Ray’s figured out that Fraser’s nervousness is on his own behalf, not Ray’s.  They have, after all, known each other for a long time.

“As you say.”  Fraser nods.  Takes a breath, meets Ray’s eyes steadily.  “May I kiss you?”

Ray blinks a couple of times, surprised, but he doesn’t look away.

“Um.  Yeah,” he says quietly.  “Yeah, you may.”

So Fraser does.  He takes one step forward, leans in just that little bit closer than he’s ever done before, and presses his lips to Ray’s.  Ray’s mouth is warm and pliant and responsive as he kisses Fraser back.

And then the kiss is over and they’re standing there looking at each other again.

“So. . .” says Ray.  “Was that it?”

“That was a kiss, yes.”

Ray gives him a dirty look.

“I mean, was that all you wanted?”

“No,” says Fraser.

“Good.”  Ray’s grin spreads slowly over his face like sunrise.  “C’mere, then.”

The second kiss turns into a series of kisses, with tongues delicately exploring.  Fraser cups the back of Ray’s head, relishing the prickle of short hair against his palm.  His other hand rests between Ray’s shoulderblades.  Ray’s own hands are more daring, settling lightly on Fraser’s hips, fingers brushing the tops of his buttocks.  Soon Ray is tugging Fraser forward, backing up while still kissing him enthusiastically, until they reach the couch, where he pulls Fraser down to sit beside him.

They kiss, and touch, nuzzling at each other’s throats and feeling their way over each other’s ribs.  Fraser slips his hands under Ray’s layers of sweatshirt and shirt to caress warm skin.  Ray sighs approval as he nibbles Fraser’s earlobe, which sends a warm shiver through his groin.  Ray tries to get his own hands under Fraser’s shirt, but it’s tucked in, and when he starts unbuttoning it, he discovers the Henley underneath.  He laughs and growls at once as he grabs a fistful of Fraser’s shirt and gives him a shake, and Fraser laughs in pure enjoyment of Ray being so very Ray.

Ray crowds him backwards against the arm of the couch, clambering partly into his lap to get at the waistband of his jeans.  His nimble fingers work Fraser’s shirttails free, undo the buttons, plunge under the Henley.  Fraser shivers when Ray’s fingers stroke his belly—such a simple thing, not even especially sexual, but intimate in a way that Fraser’s rarely been with anyone.  One of the few intimacies he’s never shared with Ray.  And now, suddenly, simply, here they are on the other side of that barrier, and Fraser’s heart is hammering like it wants to burst free of his ribs.

He feels like laughing; does laugh, and Ray’s mouth comes down on his, kissing, nipping, tasting.  Ray’s mouth is all over his face and throat; Ray’s skin is hot and slightly sweaty and entirely alive under his hands.  Ray’s weight presses down against him, comforting and arousing at the same time.  The pressure of Ray’s hips against his makes Fraser suddenly aware of his growing erection.  He rubs up against Ray, who responds with a pleased grunt and a roll of his hips down against Fraser’s and more kisses, faster and sloppier now.  Fraser gives himself over to sensation, his body awake and alight and driving instinctively towards pleasure, reveling in the scent and sound and taste and weight and heat of Ray, the wordless connection between them _._

“Wait, wait, wait.”  Ray pushes himself up and away from Fraser on both hands as though he’s doing a push-up, though their groins are left pressed tantalizingly together.  Fraser’s seen Ray in all stages of dishevelment over the years, but never like this: hair half-flattened, cheeks flushed and sweaty, lips pink and moist and parted by quick puffs of breath that Fraser can feel against his own hot face as Ray stares down at him.

“How do—what—?  What is this, exactly?” Ray asks hoarsely.  “I mean, what are you thinking you. . .because we’re going kind of fast, here, and I don’t want to push you, we can put the brakes on, it’s okay.  We don’t have to—it’s just, you’ve got me pretty worked up here, so if—”

“I don’t want to put the brakes on,” Fraser tells him, as clearly and steadily as he can, though he can barely breathe.

Ray laughs, sounding as breathless as Fraser feels.

“Yeah, okay, good.”

“It’s been a long time,” Fraser points out, in case Ray needs further convincing.

Another strangled laugh from Ray.

“Yeah, you can say that again.”  He lowers himself to kiss Fraser fervently.

When they break for air, Ray asks, “How long _has_ it been?”

“Well, almost fifteen years,” says Fraser.  “Depending on how you count, I suppose.  It. . .well, for me. . .I’ve wanted this for. . .”

“Yeah, me too.”  The end of Ray’s statement is muffled by another kiss.  “But I wasn’t asking about you and me.  I meant—”  He groans into Fraser’s neck as Fraser massages the warm bulge of Ray’s erection.  “Long time since I got laid.”

 _Five years,_ Fraser recalls automatically, but he manages not to say it aloud.  He’s confident that he’s correct, but now really isn’t the moment to discuss Ray’s romantic history.

Nor his own, but apparently Ray doesn’t want to let the subject go.  Even as he rubs up against Fraser’s hand, breathing hard into his ear; even as he fumbles with the button and zipper of Fraser’s jeans, Ray manages to stay on target.

“What about you?” he murmurs, before giving Fraser’s neck a gentle bite that makes him gasp.  “C’mon, tell me.”

“The last time I—I kissed someone—with intent—”  It’s difficult to get the words out, less because he’s reluctant to tell and more because Ray has wriggled his hand into Fraser’s pants and poked his thumb through the slit in Fraser’s boxers to stroke damp circles around the head of Fraser’s penis, sending sparks all through Fraser’s body.

“D-Denny.  Scarpa,” he stutters.

“Seriously?”  Ray’s hand pauses, but Fraser pushes up against it, and the delicious movement starts up again.

“Yes.”

He can’t get his own hand into Ray’s jeans, not at this angle, but he squeezes firmly, slowly, resisting the urge to speed up to match the rhythm of Ray’s breath.  Ray burrows his face into Fraser’s chest, nuzzling and nipping Fraser through the cotton shirt, fondling Fraser’s penis all the while.

“What about—the last time you—had sex?”  Ray lifts his head to look at Fraser, who takes the opportunity to kiss him until he moans.  The sound arouses Fraser almost as much as Ray’s fingers on him.

“Tell me,” whispers Ray.

“Why?”

“Want to know.”  Ray’s hand slides up, down, up.

“Before you,” Fraser whispers.  “Before I met you.”

Ray makes a noise that might be surprise, or acknowledgement, or a response to Fraser’s tongue investigating his ear.

“Always kind of—wondered.  Didn’t think you had—wasn’t sure I’d know, though.”

“A woman,” Fraser says, to forestall the obvious conversation about Ray Vecchio.

“I’m not—tell me I’m not, uh, popping your cherry here, Frase.  I mean, as far as the guy-on-guy thing goes.”

“No.  Not technically.  Though possibly by the statute of limitations. . .”

“Okay, all right, well, it’s like riding a bicycle, right?”

Fraser gives him a baffled frown.

“I mean, you don’t forget how.  Your body kinda remembers what to do, even if it’s been a long time, even if you’re out of practice.”  Ray squirms, pressing the length of his body against Fraser’s, which feels wonderful but makes it difficult for either of them to keep moving their hands.

“Ah.  I hope you’re right.  I wouldn’t want to—”

Ray cuts him off with a kiss.

“It’s okay,” he whispers as he licks Fraser’s earlobe.  “You won’t.”

Fraser rolls his head to the side to expose his neck to Ray’s lips, which delicately trail over his skin, making him sigh.

“So, does that mean we should move this to the bedroom?” Ray asks.

“Please.”

With a grin, Ray hauls Fraser to his feet.

Ray’s bed is large enough for two and then some.  Plenty of room for them to finally shed their clothing and look at each other.  They’re familiar with each other’s bodies, of course: so much of their work together is physical, and so many of their leisure time activities, too.  They’ve changed clothing in front of each other; loaned each other clothing on occasion; slept side-by-side; bandaged each other’s injuries.  But this is new: to be fully naked together, aroused and willingly on display.

The first time Fraser saw Ray’s bare chest, it looked like a teenager’s: so thin that his ribs showed under his skin, and hairless except for his armpits and a nearly-invisible stripe leading down from his navel into his waistband.  Now his ribs are invisible under flesh and muscle; his arms and chest are thicker and more muscular, though he’s still lean compared to Fraser.  Hair in a mixture of sandy-brown and grey is sprinkled over his breastbone and around his nipples; it’s thicker below his navel and, of course, between his legs.  The sight of Ray’s penis arching up incongruously makes Fraser flush with a combination of embarrassment and desire.  There’s nothing strange or shameful about any part of the anatomy, of course, but still, to be staring like this is. . .odd.

And it’s apparently making Ray self-conscious, because he squirms—though he doesn’t move to cover or hide himself—and frowns a little as he asks:

“Whatcha looking at?”

“You.”

That gets him one of Ray’s shy smiles.  The combination of that vulnerable expression with Ray’s messy hair, the flush on his cheeks and chest, and the fact that he’s lying stark naked, completely exposed to Fraser’s view. . .Fraser bites his lip, blinking hard.

“You going to just look all night?” Ray asks.

“By no means,” says Fraser, which for some reason makes Ray laugh and then roll over on top of Fraser and start kissing him all over.

Fraser hasn’t had much sex in his life and none recently, but apparently Ray is right: you really don’t forget.  Or possibly it’s just that he knows Ray so very well, physically and emotionally and intellectually, that it’s easy to figure out how to read his cues, anticipate his desires, move in time with him, give him pleasure.

There was a time when Fraser used to think that if he ever had sex with Ray, he would go up in smoke, his self-control shattered.  Perhaps it would have been like that, years ago, when all Fraser’s emotions felt huge and raw and desperate.  Perhaps not.  At any rate, it isn’t such a wild, all-consuming thing now that it’s finally happening.  It’s tender and hot and joyful (even if the awareness of the circumstances that made it possible never quite recedes entirely, underscoring it all with bittersweet tension).  No danger, no loss of self, only the sharing of pleasure, and afterwards, a deep satisfaction.

Fraser’s drifting in pleasant lassitude, not thinking at all for once, just enjoying the weight of Ray’s head on his chest and the rhythm of Ray’s breathing, slightly out of sync with his own.  When Ray speaks, his voice lower than usual, slurred with drowsiness, it takes Fraser a moment to parse the words:

“Stay over?”

“Yes,” Fraser replies automatically, then realizes that he had simply assumed he would be sharing Ray’s bed for the night.  But he feels no shame or alarm at the realization, as he might have a decade ago.  He’s welcome here; he’s wanted.  And he knows it.

He cranes his neck awkwardly to kiss the top of Ray’s head.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.  By way of reply, Ray grunts and snuggles closer, rubbing his cheek against Fraser’s chest.

He’s very nearly asleep when Ray’s restless fidgeting tugs him back to consciousness.  He loosens his grip, but Ray doesn’t roll away.

“Okay, fuck,” he whispers.  “I wasn’t going to ask, but I can’t sleep unless I know.”

Fraser makes an inquisitive noise.

“Is this a one-time thing?” Ray asks.

“I hope not.  Unless that’s what you want?”

“No,” Ray answers without hesitation.  “That’s not what I want.”

“Well, all right, then.”

Fraser doesn’t expect Ray to be satisfied so easily, but apparently even after fifteen years of friendship, they haven’t lost all capacity to surprise each other, because Ray settles back down and says nothing more.  Not too long afterwards, his breathing relaxes into the rhythm of sleep.

  

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

Fraser should have known—really, he should have—that it couldn’t be that easy.

There’s nearly a week of. . .bliss, yes, that really is the proper word.  Working with Ray as usual, as though the clock were not ticking down towards Ray’s last day on the job.  Then getting into Ray’s car together, driving somewhere for dinner or picking up take-out.  Then back to Ray’s apartment and Ray’s bed (because they’re both more comfortable than Fraser’s, as even he has to admit) for, well, sex.  And falling asleep wrapped around each other, which takes some getting used to after a lifetime of sleeping alone, but brings a kind of comfort Fraser hadn’t realized he was missing.

Ray seems as happy as Fraser about all this.  He smiles and laughs easily, and he responds enthusiastically to Fraser’s touch, whether they’re having sex or simply cuddling.  True, he does occasionally turn moody or distracted, but that’s more or less normal for Ray and it’s not as though romance is a cure for all troubles.  And Fraser’s always able to coax him into a happier frame of mind.

So Fraser is entirely unprepared for Ray to turn to him in the car after a tiring but ultimately satisfying day of chasing heroin smugglers, and say in an exhausted, beaten voice:

“I’m sorry.  I can’t do this.”

“You only have a few weeks to go—” Fraser starts to say, baffled.

“Yeah, no, not the job, Frase.  This, this you and me thing.  I can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” says Fraser.

“Me, too.”  Ray looks like he hasn’t slept—did he look like that this morning? Fraser wonders frantically.  Ray looks like an old man, which he isn’t.

“I thought you wanted it,” Fraser forces himself to say, at last.

But Ray instantly responds, “I do want it.  I really, really do,” which eases the knot in Fraser’s chest a little.  Ray’s hand twitches in Fraser’s direction but pulls back without touching him.

“But I just can’t,” Ray says softly, his eyes dropping to the steering wheel.  “Not with you out there every day on the streets, doing the job, running around taking risks and doing crazy shit and saving the day with someone else.  And me, what, sitting around the apartment waiting for you to come home and tell me about your day?  Or to get shot because I wasn’t there to watch your back?”  Ray’s voice cracks.

Fraser puts his hand on Ray’s shoulder in a useless gesture of comfort.  Ray twitches violently under his touch.

“It’s _not_ okay,” he hisses, although Fraser hadn’t been going to say any such thing.  It is, in fact, not okay.

“I can’t do it, all right?”  Ray rubs his hand over his face wearily, all the fight gone out of him.  “I’d end up hating you, and hating me.  So let’s not do that, huh?”

Fraser can’t reply, but it’s moot.  It takes two to say _yes_ , but only one to say _no._

Ray starts the car.  They drive to Fraser’s apartment in silence.

“Are we still friends?” Fraser asks, because he can’t bear not to know.

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Ray says quickly, in that weary voice.  It sounds like a rote response, but Fraser knows better.  The urge to hug Ray almost overwhelms him, but of course, he no longer has the right.

“Ray, I—”

“Don’t,” Ray cuts him off.  He sighs, staring out the window.  “Look, see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yes, of course,” says Fraser, and gets out of the car.

  

                                    *                                  *                                  *

 

Ray’s retirement party is. . .surprisingly not awkward.  Though, on reflection, there’s little reason for anyone but Fraser to feel awkward.  As far as he’s aware, Ray’s colleagues don’t know the reason for Ray’s early retirement.  They only know that it’s voluntary, that Ray is retiring in good health and in the good graces of his superiors.  And Fraser expects that the obvious sincerity with which Lt. O’Malley wishes Ray well will go a long way to quell any nasty speculations.

Ray himself is doing and saying all the right things: smiling and mingling and making casual chat.  Flirting a little with the women, who have all long since realized that he doesn’t actually mean anything by it.  Talking amicable trash with the men.  Telling war stories to the rookies and the civilian aides, who—as Ray himself is wont to put it—seem to get younger every year, and can’t make up their minds whether to write him off as a tall-tale-teller or worship him as some sort of action hero.

Ray puts on a good act, and it’s not entirely an act, either, but Fraser keeps an eye on him for signs of strain, preparing an assortment of excuses with which to drag him off should rescue seem necessary.  He mostly keeps his distance from Ray, unsure whether his presence would be a source of comfort or distress.  For his part, Ray neither seeks Fraser out nor goes out of his way to avoid him.  Fraser notices that Ray regularly glances his way, though.  He never seems to be trying to convey any particular message; as far as Fraser can tell, Ray’s just checking in, making sure Fraser’s there.

A few people ask Fraser whether he’ll still be around now that his partner’s retiring, and so forth.  Fraser deflects them with irrelevant trivia.  He gets the impression that others are Not Asking him those questions, which doesn’t bother him.  He just hopes that people have enough sense and tact not to bring the matter up with Ray.  He starts running subtle interference, diverting Ray’s less courteous colleagues away from whatever part of the room Ray’s currently in.  At one point, he happens to catch Francesca’s eye from across the room and realizes, with mild surprise, that she’s doing the same thing.  He makes a point of chatting with her at some length, later; she makes a point of keeping the conversation firmly on the latest news from her brother and her children’s school accomplishments.

After the first few people take their leave, Ray bows out with as little fuss as possible.  He offers Fraser a ride home, which Fraser accepts.  During the ride, they exchange a few comments about the party—relating humorous moments and the like—but nothing of substance, and there is more quiet than conversation.

When Ray pulls up in front of Fraser’s apartment building, Fraser is tempted to just stay in the car.  He could invent some pretext: an errand to be run, an imaginary crisis.  Less absurdly, he could invite Ray in for coffee—friends do that.

He turns to make the offer, and finds Ray taking a breath as though he’s about to say something.  So Fraser waits.  But Ray doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t say anything, and then he looks away and says, “So.  Goodnight.”

And Fraser doesn’t know what to do but get out of the car and watch Ray drive away, thinking, _At least he said goodnight.  Not goodbye._

He’s not really sure whether that means anything, though.

It’s earlier than he’s used to going to bed—years with Ray have shifted his habits toward later nights, though he still rises more or less with the sun—but he changes into his long johns, washes his face, brushes his teeth.  He takes _À la Recherche du Temps Perdu_ to bed with him, but the words are a meaningless jumble on the page.

 _It’s over._ The words circle around and around in his head, deadening his ability to think.  _Over over over._

Tomorrow he will get up, walk to the Consulate, perform his duties as usual.  And the next day, and the next day after that, on into the foreseeable future, the routine unbroken by visits to the 27th District police station to work with Ray.  He supposes he should call Lt. O’Malley and discuss possibilities for continuing his liaison work, but he still draws a blank when he tries to picture what that would be like: police work in Chicago, without Ray.

His reverie is broken by a knock on his apartment door.

It isn’t locked, but he gets up to answer it, prepared for anything from a neighbor in distress to an assassin waiting to get the jump on him.  Behind him, Diefenbaker rises to his feet, suddenly alert.

It’s Ray.  Fraser shouldn’t be surprised—he gets few other visitors, particularly at this hour—but he is.  He’s shocked to the core.

“I’m a dumbass,” Ray tells him.

Fraser doesn’t know what to say to that.  He steps back and gestures for Ray to come into the apartment, but Ray holds his ground.

“And I’m chicken,” he says.

“Understandable, under the circumstances,” Fraser offers.

Ray snorts, shakes his head.

“And. . .you weren’t wrong,” Fraser goes on.  It’s hard to force the words out, but they need to be said.

“No.  I’m not wrong.  But I. . .”  Ray’s hands come up, palms spread.  “I just—I can’t—I want. . .”

“Please,” says Fraser.  “Come inside.”

Ray takes a few steps, just enough to clear the door.  Fraser has to reach past him to shut it.  Dief, after greeting Ray with a gentle lick at his hands, tactfully leaves the humans to their business.

“Frase.”  Ray’s gaze is fixed on Fraser’s chest.  “Do you—could you—can we—?”

“What?”

“Try again.”  Ray swallows and meets Fraser’s eyes.  “I want to try this again.  You and me.  If you—”

“Yes,” says Fraser.  “Please.”

Their second first kiss is as gentle as the first, but deeper.  And this time, there’s no hesitation afterwards.  Fraser holds Ray close, thinking that this is what coming home must feel like.

Unlike Ray’s bed, Fraser’s is barely big enough for two, but Ray doesn’t give him a hard time about it.  Ray doesn’t say anything, doesn’t _do_ anything except let Fraser lead him to the bed and strip him to the waist and touch him and kiss him while Ray stands still, trembling, watching him.  Until it strikes Fraser like a physical blow that Ray’s waiting for _permission_ , which makes Fraser want to break something.  He takes Ray’s hands and places them on the buttons of his own long johns and says, again,

“Please.”

And apparently that’s all Ray needed, because he pops open the buttons and kisses Fraser all over as he helps him out of the long johns, nudges him down onto the bed and climbs on top of him, muttering breathless disjointed words whenever his mouth is free.  When Fraser tickles him under his arms, Ray laughs and squirms and curses, and they mock-wrestle until they nearly roll each other off the bed and Ray has to haul Fraser back up.  After that it’s easy and sweet and slow, except at the end where it gets frantic and sloppy, both of them clutching at each other as they rub each other, groaning and panting, into climax.

“Frase?”

“Mm?”

Ray’s fingers are tracing patterns over Fraser’s thigh and groin and around his penis.  It isn’t exactly arousing—and Fraser isn’t likely to get another erection any time soon in any case—but it feels good.

“ _Do_ you want to go back to Canada?  Honestly?  Because, I mean. . .”  He doesn’t finish the thought, but Fraser understands.

He does Ray the courtesy of taking a moment to really think about it.  It isn’t as though he doesn’t miss the Northwest Territories.  He’s even fantasized now and then about bringing Ray back there with him.  But as sweet as the fantasy is—especially now that Ray is his lover as well as his friend—it’s really only a fantasy.  The reality is that the Territories are a harsh place to live, particularly for someone not bred to that life.  Even if Ray took to the climate, the isolation would be hard on him, and there would be little for him to do; the problems they face now would only be exacerbated there.  Then, too, the places Fraser loves most are dangerous; doubly dangerous for a city-bred newcomer; triply so to a man with failing vision.

“The parts I’d want to move to. . .they’re not easy to grow old in,” says Fraser.  “Even for those of us who grew up there.”

“Even for you?”

“Even for me.”  Which is the honest truth, much as Fraser might wish to believe otherwise.

“So you’ll take the soft life, is what you’re saying?” Ray’s voice is teasing, but that’s just a cover to allow them to say what needs to be said without cutting too deeply.  Ray understands what Fraser’s telling him; likely he also understands much of what Fraser has left unsaid.

“I want to grow old here,” Fraser tells him.  “With you.”

“Okay.”  Ray kisses Fraser’s chest, snuggles down against him, and lies still for a while.  Fraser can tell from the sound of his breathing that Ray hasn’t fallen asleep, though, so it isn’t too surprising when he eventually speaks again.

“How long are you going to keep at it?”  Before Fraser can ask, Ray clarifies, “The job.  Maintaining the right and all that.”

“Until they put me in the ground,” says Fraser.  “Or until you tell me that it’s time to retire.”

Ray pushes himself up to look down at Fraser’s face.

“Seriously?  You’d let me make that call?”

“I doubt I’d be able to do it for myself.”

Ray freezes, staring at Fraser with an expression like Fraser’s just punched him.  Fraser’s stomach clenches, but he waits, letting Ray look into his eyes, until the shy smile blooms on Ray’s face, then relaxes into something broader and less tentative.

“Okay then,” says Ray quietly, and leans down to seal the deal with a kiss.


End file.
